


Coincidence (The Universe is Rarely so Lazy)

by Deductions_of_a_Psychopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Don't ask me why I wrote this, Emergency - Freeform, Heart Attack, Holmes Brothers, Hospital, I just enjoy torturing characters, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock if you'd like - Freeform, Sentiment, Sherlock Holmes and Feelings, Sickfic, Vulnerability, Whump, mystrade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-05
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:18:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath/pseuds/Deductions_of_a_Psychopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nobody close to him would suspect that Mycroft would be the one to suffer a heart attack, not with his strict diet and exercise regimen. The news comes as a bit of an incomprehensible shock to Sherlock who has never known his brother to be the 'vulnerable one'. Needless to say, he doesn't cope as well as he would like, and Greg isn't doing so well, either. Thankfully John is there to keep Sherlock right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coincidence (The Universe is Rarely so Lazy)

**Author's Note:**

> Honestly, there's not that much plot to this, it's just time passing normally (or, to Greg, Sherlock, and John, far too slowly) with lots of angst and anxiety. I wrote it because I'd had the idea for over a week and needed to write it, and if you're a fan of sickfics and whump fics as I am, I hope you'll enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.  
> Please leave a comment and tell me what you think! Not Beta'd, not Brit-picked, I just typed and posted. Any errors are wholly mine, and drop me a comment if you find something glaringly wrong that I overlooked!

"I did promise that I would make up for having to cancel our prior dinner plans so suddenly," Mycroft said between bites of his dinner; a baked white fish with lemon and dill that looked absolutely disgusting to Greg, whose palate was better served by heartier foods such as fish and chips, especially the ones with thicker batter and extra grease. Mycroft had long since stopped hoping to understand the man's (in his opinion) revolting cuisine choices.

 

"I like this more than sitting in a restaurant, anyway," Greg finally responded, looking around Mycroft's familiar kitchen as a smile tugged at his lips. Mycroft had slowed on his fish, taking smaller and smaller bites over the last few minutes until now when he had stopped altogether. "Everything alright? Find a fishbone or something?" Greg asked casually, taking another bite of his pasta. 

 

Mycroft frowned. Something wasn't right. He had suddenly begun to feel...generally unwell. He wasn't sure how else to describe it, really, which was more frightening than the wave of dizziness that came over him. "Quite fine, I'm sure," he told the DI, but a moment later his stomach churned and he wasn't so sure he could live up to those words. "I do hope I'm not falling ill. The fish doesn't seem to be settling well. Would you like any more-" he cut off mid-sentence when a sharp pain hit his chest, momentarily knocking the breath out of his lungs. 

 

"Mycroft?" came Greg's worried voice, the sound of his fork being set back on his plate and the legs of his chair scraping across the floor in preparation to stand breaking the sudden tense silence.

 

"I'm fine, really. Nothing more than minor gastrointestinal upset," he winced, pushing himself up from his chair. His hands were shaking and already there was perspiration beginning to break out on his forehead. That was most distressing. The tightness that was settling in his chest seemed to be prohibiting the air that had been knocked out of his lungs from effectively coming back in, so he took a moment to breathe deeply once he stood with the intent of getting himself a fresh glass of water, though he quickly found that it didn't seem to help. Greg still looked on with a worried expression, not liking the fact that Mycroft had just stopped in mid-sentence and then promptly forgotten to finish it. That was a red flag. "God, you've gone pale. What's wrong?" he asked, noticing the slightly dull tinge that Mycroft's skin had taken on, the pallor of his face draining to a slate grey. Greg stood just as Mycroft walked toward the counter, resting both hands on it and looking down for a moment before there was a sharp intake of breath and one of Mycroft's hands pressed against his chest. 

 

The pain in his chest wasn't so much actual pain as it was tightness; squeezing, compressing, choking. Oxygen was suddenly harder to come by and the onslaught of dizziness mixed with nausea and a vague sense of unsteadiness was making it difficult to think straight, but the sharp bursts of pain in his chest brought his slipping thoughts back to reality with every hard pump of his heart. He was aware now of Greg beside him, gripping his shoulder. "Myc? Hey, look at me. Tell me what's going on," Greg said urgently, fearing the worst. Surely he was reading the signs wrong. There was no way this could be happening. 

 

Mycroft didn't exactly realize that he had bent over the counter even further in a response to pain until Greg's hand was pulling at his shoulder again and his hurried words were demanding answers. "I'm experiencing sharp chest pains and shortness of breath, among..." he paused, shifting uneasily on his feet, "-among other equally distressing symptoms," he said, closing his eyes to try and keep himself calm. It couldn't have been more than a few seconds before Greg said anything but to Mycroft it felt like a lifetime, and anything that the DI may have said was unheard and cut off a few moments later by Mycroft's hurried command of "Call an ambulance,".

 

Oh god. Oh god, this wasn't happening. It couldn't be happening, everything had _just_ been fine. Greg froze for half a second before his hand was digging in his pocket for his mobile, mashing the nines for emergency services and pressing it against his ear. "Sit down, sit," he urged, letting go of Mycroft's shoulder long enough to drag the chair roughly across the floor, positioning it just behind Mycroft and guiding him down. "Deep breaths, try and stay calm, I'm calling right now," he said as the line connected, and the calm but hurried voice on the other end said "Emergency: which service do you require?"

 

"Ambulance, I need an ambulance," he said quickly, knowing he was short on time and needed to be concise in his words. He gave the address and then took a moment to organize his thoughts as best he could in the nanosecond he allotted himself, quickly continuing on. "My--" oh, who the hell cared? "My partner, I think he's having a heart attack." he said, pausing to listen to the smooth voice instruct him on the other end, responding with clipped sentences of "Yes, he's sitting." and "He's still conscious, yes," and "He's only forty-two."

 

The voice assured him that emergency services were on the way and urged him to keep the line open. Greg felt a fresh wave of panic come over him when he had to explain that yes, he knew how to perform CPR and he knew how to tell when it was necessary. Even the thought of having to perform CPR on Mycroft was paralyzing, but he somehow managed to keep himself right. There was a task to be done, and right now he couldn't afford to slip up. More concerned with keeping Mycroft calm, Greg ended the conversation with the voice on the other end and shoved the phone back in his pocket, kneeling down in front of Mycroft. "They're on their way, deep breaths," he said, feeling utterly useless. This was quick and sudden and absolutely terrifying, and how were they supposed to manage the next seven minutes before the ambulance arrived without both dying from the anxiety and adrenaline that was beginning to fill the room? "Look at me. Talk to me, can you do that?" Greg asked, gripping Mycroft's shoulder once more.

 

Mycroft looked up and dropped his hand from where it had pressed against his chest, somewhat against his volition. "Yes, I can. I'm..." he paused to take in a breath, feeling rather like a boa constrictor had slithered its way into his ribcage and begun to squeeze his internal organs. His vision swam and he gasped again as another shock of pain shot through his chest, pulling a quiet noise from his throat and writing lines onto his forehead. "I'm..." Why couldn't he finish his sentence? He couldn't bring himself to say 'I'm fine' because at the moment, that was a blatant lie. He was beginning to panic, and Mycroft Holmes did not panic, though this particular situation seemed to be testing his own belief in that. 

 

Greg had fixed his fingers sturdily onto Mycroft's wrist, measuring his erratic pulse for what had to be years before the wail of sirens reached his ears and he felt more relieved than he had thought possible while watching Mycroft crumble into a rubble heap of concrete walls and armour that he had spent his lifetime building up. At some point Greg had begun to chant a mantra that consisted of "Take another deep breath," and "You're going to be fine, love," or something similar. He wasn't sure now; his own mind running rampant with the terrible possibilities of what could happen at any moment in the immediate future: fleeting images of Mycroft crumpling to the floor, lifeless beneath his fingertips. He shook the thoughts away as quickly as they came, telling himself that now was  _not_ the time to dwell on such thoughts. Not ever.

Mycroft's eyes fluttered and Greg's own heart skipped a few beats as he reached forward to grab Mycroft's shoulder again in case he began to slip in his chair. The man's eyes opened again and Greg breathed a sigh of almost-relief as he heard the front door open and medics begin to rush in. The pain on Mycroft's face was unhidden to Greg, though he knew for any medics looking on they wouldn't be able to tell the extent of the discomfort, not having prior knowledge of how precise Mycroft's expressions were, how untelling they always seemed to be. Greg reluctantly stood once the medics surrounded Mycroft, finally removing fingers from the man's wrist and moving just slightly out of the way to let the men and women work. "He's in more pain than he's letting on," Greg said helplessly, feeling dizzy with worry and adrenaline, which skyrocketed when he heard a pained noise that had failed to be suppressed come from Mycroft. He had to turn away to compose himself and lean against the counter to keep himself from slipping into full-blown panic. Mycroft was in good hands now, he was under the care of professionals who had lifesaving equipment, who would take care of him. It was sickening to Greg how Mycroft was always so careful with his diet and his exercise regimen, and how Greg was much more lax on the subjects and yet hadn't had so much as a high cholesterol report. The government official was younger than him by four years as well, which only stressed him further, as if he needed the extra stress. Things were happening too quickly, this was too much, and Greg jumped when a gentle hand rested on his shoulder to get his attention. A paramedic was watching him with worried eyes, asking him if he was alright and asking him to sit in the chair that Mycroft had just been in. Mycroft was gone, he was already out of the room and Greg had missed it. He declined the request as politely as he could and jogged from the kitchen, wondering how the hell he had slipped so far into his mind to miss Mycroft being taken out to the ambulance. It was his mind's way of protecting himself from a complete and total breakdown he knew, and the same relief as a moment earlier flooded him when he saw Mycroft being loaded into the ambulance with an oxygen mask over his mouth and nose and multiple people monitoring his vitals. Greg stepped closer and managed to get in the ambulance, which no doubt would have been impossible if it hadn't been Mycroft, who probably had such a detail written in a file somewhere that was common knowledge to anyone who may be dispatched to assist him in an emergency such as this. Keeping clear of the doctors, Greg sat on the bench and put his head in his hands, noticing that they were shaking as he pulled out his mobile. 

 

OoOoOoOoOoOOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

 

It had taken years, but John had finally learned how to manage slow nights at Baker Street or rather, how to manage Sherlock. Nights without cases, without Mrs. Hudson repeatedly asking both him and Sherlock if they wanted tea, without crap telly to distract the genius that he had chosen to live and work with for god knows what reason were becoming more and more common with London's lack of 'decent criminals', as Sherlock so often liked to complain. John was seated at the kitchen table with a newspaper in his hand, reading it for the second time that day as Sherlock peered into his microscope at mould samples that John could only hope weren't dangerous to be around food since he had seen the man pull them out of the refrigerator earlier. His mobile rang and he set down the newspaper, folding it over the table as he looked at the caller ID, seeing Lestrade's name. "You might have a case, Sherlock, Greg's calling me," he said as he hit the button to connect the call, pressing it to his ear and beginning the conversation with a cheery "Hey, Greg--" that quickly faded when he heard the ambulance siren in the background and the distressed tone of Greg's voice. Hearing sirens wasn't anything out of the ordinary, not for a DI who would call from crime scenes, but the panicked hush of his voice had John's skin prickling after only a few words. John stood from the table, already feeling too anxious to sit down. 

 

"Wait--slow down, I can't understand you," John was forced to cut in, pacing across the room to stand in the doorway, noticing in the reflection on the microwave door that Sherlock hadn't so much as twitched.

 

On the other end of the line, Greg sucked in a shaky breath and started again more slowly, more controlled, relaying the small amount of informaton that he had to John who, in turn, leaned against the doorframe in shock.

 

"Oh my god. Jesus, how long ago?" he asked, a frown carving deep lines into his forehead. When the DI answered the question John blew his lungful of air out of his mouth and stuttered over his words, already dreading what was about to happen. "Yeah. Yeah, I'll tell him. Keep me updated, alright? Text or call me, we'll be there soon," he promised and then paused, managing to catch a few more words on Greg's end over the sound of voices converging in the background, all fighting to be louder than the sirens. "He'll be alright, Greg. Things'll be fine, you know that, right?" he asked, hoping he could keep his potentially hollow promise.

 

John saw Sherlock's head pop up from the microscope eyepiece as he ended the conversation with Greg but he didn't turn around immediately. He took two seconds to organize his racing thoughts before he turned, knowing that his face would give everything away if he didn't speak quickly enough to verbally tell Sherlock everything. He turned quickly and walked back to the chair, pulling his jacket off the back of it and putting it on as he said "We need to go, Sherlock, now," hoping he could buy a few more seconds before he had to deliver the news. He had been the bearer of bad news far too many times in his life, it was  part of the job in Afghanistan, but that was a life gone by, and the sinking guilt that was weighing heavily in his stomach was all but unfamiliar. "It's Mycroft," he said, and watched as a flicker of something unrecognizable flashed over Sherlock's face. The detective uttered a quiet "What's happened to him?" as John pulled at the hem of his jacket. There was no hesitation in Sherlock's voice; he knew something was wrong.

 

"He's had a heart attack. Greg's with him in the ambulance, they're on their way to Bart's right now," he said, the words coming out before he could think twice. 

 

Sherlock's face blanked, becoming devoid of all readable expression. "Sherlock? We need to go, come on," John urged after a moment of tense silence and stillness. This couldn't happen, Sherlock couldn't freeze now. John walked over and stood beside him, waiting a moment before putting a hand on his shoulder. "He's going to be fine, I'm sure. It doesn't sound like it was a very serious attack and they called the ambulance just about as soon as he started having symptoms, so he's got the best chance of---" choose your words carefully, Watson, "of a full recovery right now. We need to go, Sherlock, can you stand up for me?" If he could get some motion in Sherlock maybe things would go more smoothly, or at least be less unsettling.

 

Sherlock's eyes had settled into a thousand-yard stare, and John couldn't wait any longer. "Hey, look at me," he said more firmly, wondering what could possibly be happening in the brilliant mind of his, but fearing that finding out was exactly what was going to happen. "Talk to me, yeah?" he urged, dragging his chair closer to sit next to Sherlock, hoping to coax something out of him. He knew that Sherlock's relationship with Mycroft was obligatory at best, but now John was beginning to think that perhaps that was just on the surface. It wasn't hard to determine that there was more history between them than most brothers but then again, the Holmes brothers weren't in the category with 'most' anybody. 

 

An aborted noise came from Sherlock's throat a moment later and John perked up, leaning forward slightly at the threat of words coming from the man in front of him, but it was simply covered with Sherlock clearing his throat and finally lifting his chin up slightly, just enough to turn his head and look at John. "There you are, good. Take a deep breath for me, everything's going to be fine," John assured. A thousand questions were filling his head now, wondering what exactly had happened between Sherlock and Mycroft to cause such adversity between them on a daily basis that transferred into this level of worry and concern over an emergency. John knew that Sherlock was capable of caring, however much the detective abhorred admitting it at times. If anything, this was only solidifying the fact that Sherlock did care for his brother.

 

After a moment, Sherlock lifted his hand to push the microscope away, his experiment clearly forgotten. "Fat bastard," he finally breathed, his deep voice quiet and airy. John didn't comment on the slight tremor that was evident in Sherlock's fingertips, instead just leaning back to give him space now that he seemed to be coming back to himself. 

 

"Glad to have you back. What can I do?" John asked, still watching Sherlock like a hawk; keeping an eye out for any reaction more severe than this. Sherlock's trembling hands had settled into his lap and he didn't seem to be willing to move anywhere at the moment, not even to stand and get his coat that was just outside the room.

 

Sherlock never had to process words. Never had to stop and think and form his sentences carefully, they always just happened. Now, though, all the sentences were fragmented in his head and piecing together in the wrong order; order destroyed by the chaos in his hurricane of a mind. "Always knew this would happen. Told him to not be so fat when he was younger," Sherlock said, and John just barely managed to not roll his eyes. He knew that this was Sherlock's defense mechanism; insulting his brother to get out his anger and terror of the thought that he could lose him. Because of that, John said nothing; only kept his eyes fixed pointedly on Sherlock for a few more moments. 

 

"Are we going to St. Bart's, then? Greg wants us to come," John said a moment later, finally breaking his gaze from Sherlock's face to look down at the man's hands in his lap. They were resting on his thighs and trembling and John felt a surge of pity. Sherlock was never anything close to helpless. He certainly wasn't helpless now, but he _was_ vulnerable, that much was clear. "Hey, Sherlock." John muttered quietly, leaning closer to put one hand over Sherlock's on his leg. "Everything's going to be fine. Trust me?" he said, the inflection at the end of his words offering it as a question if Sherlock felt like taking it as one.

 

Oh, John. Doctor Watson, Captain Watson. Always trying to help, trying to take away pain of any and all sorts. John wasn't a liar but he _was_ sentimental, and early on in his life Sherlock had found that the two were directly related. Those who cared tended to lie to the ones they cared for, that they were sentimental of. 'Sugarcoating', as Mummy called it. Mummy was never one to sugarcoat things, not ever, but the general population was. John wasn't exactly the general population, but he wasn't a Holmes, either, which was being proven all the more by what he had just said. Of course Sherlock trusted him, that was the point of him, that was what made John different. Nevertheless, Sherlock couldn't help but hear the uncertainty in John's words, in his promises. He had no way of knowing if Mycroft would actually be alright; those were empty words that carried the intention of calming him down, which was something he definitely needed to do. His thoughts were beginning to get too uncontrollable for his liking, and he couldn't bear to lose control, not now. His entire frame shook lightly for a moment, the trembling visible in his shoulders, and he dropped his chin down toward his chest as he closed his eyes, blowing out all his air and then sucking in a deep breath, doing his best to keep everything as even as he could. John sat next to him babbling mindless praises, telling him "That's it, good, keep doing that," as if he needed to be praised for knowing how to breathe deeply. It was a pointless tactic but Sherlock couldn't and wouldn't dissuade him right now, not when he truly was trying to help. 

 

It was interesting, how Sherlock was reacting. Not exactly the 'good' kind of interesting like Sherlock saw under his microscope, but more just...curious. He wasn't going to ask anytime soon, of course, but the burning questions of Sherlock and Mycroft's history definitely wouldn't be going away now, not when this emergency had caused Sherlock to have something of a completely human reaction rather than a reaction that consisted of shutting out the entirety of the real world and receding into his mind, wandering the corridors of his mind palace and doing whatever it was he did to keep himself in check. That was something else that John had never asked in detail about. Another day, another time.

 

"We should leave." John's words weren't quite so hesitant this time. Sherlock seemed to be in control and if they waited any longer, it was likely that they wouldn't be going anywhere in the near future because John had a nagging suspicion that given any more time to think about it and dwell on it, Sherlock _would_ shut down completely, and neither of them could afford for that to happen at the moment.

 

A moment later, John leaned away and Sherlock pushed himself from the table, his expression stony again. He gave John a short, silent nod without looking at him and walked across the kitchen to the living room to get his coat, pulling it on and heading toward the door, leaving his scarf completely forgotten on the rack.

 

************

The cab ride to St. Bart's was unbelievably tense, not that John had expected anything different. Sherlock's anxiety seemed to grow with every passing kilometer until even the cabbie picked up on it and issued a quiet "You alright, mate?" to Sherlock before John discouraged him from asking again with a quick glare. Sherlock had seemed composed at the beginning of the ride, but now he was shaking his leg incessantly and drumming his fingers on his knees or the window or whatever his hand happened to be resting on. John, for a few minutes, was in a debate with himself as to whether or not he should interrupt whatever inner monologue Sherlock had going and try and break up the anxiety-inducing thoughts, or leave him be and let his unparalleled mind sort itself out. Two minutes from the hospital John made his decision and slipped his hand over to rest it on Sherlock's leg unobtrusively, making sure that he didn't force Sherlock to stop perfoming any of the nervous tics, only giving him something else- a touch - to focus on.

 

John paid once they reached the hospital and thanked the cabbie before he slid out after Sherlock, not surprised that the detective was already halfway to the entrance. He jogged to catch up and fell into stride next to Sherlock as the automatic doors opened. The lobby was strangely empty (or maybe it just seemed that way since John was only looking for one person), which proved to be beneficial since John's eyes locked on Greg almost immediately. The DI was standing next to an empty row of chairs, clearly too nervous to be still, let alone sit. John couldn't blame him, but he did tense up as the man started moving toward them, not knowing exactly what to expect. 

 

"John," Greg started, locking eyes with the man before turning to look at Sherlock and addressing him as well. "They've got him back there," he said, pointing to a pair of rubber double doors that closed off the entrance to the corridor. "Said they'd come get me when they're sure he's stable. Things got a bit rough in the ambulance," he said, scratching the back of his neck. "Pain-wise, I mean. Nothing too bad. Just got a bit..." he didn't know how to finish the sentence, so he let it trail off. He blew out an unsteady breath as he recalled the whirlwind ride that had been the trip in the ambulance, wishing he could at least delete the sound and sight of Mycroft crying out from the pain in his chest but he wasn't a Holmes; he couldn't just 'delete' things from the hard drive of his brain. Oh, to be so lucky. He had long since decided to stop trying to understand that (or the Holmes brothers in general, though he felt confident that he understood more about Mycroft than most did) and it had saved him countless hours of worry and strife, and put his mind at a strange sort of ease.

 

Time ticked on at an agonizingly slow pace in the waiting room. Seconds turned into hours; minutes into years, and a quarter of an hour became an eon. The era ended when a woman dressed in a clean-cut suit came through the other side of the rubber doors, striding directly toward the group of three.

 

"Anthea?" John questioned, wondering how she had gotten back to be with Mycroft before them when Greg hadn't even mentioned her. He then remembered that they were dealing with _Mycroft Holmes_ and she was _Mycroft Holmes's PA_ , and he let the thought drop as quickly as it had come. 

 

With her mobile tucked safely into it's place in her hand, Anthea greeted the three men by name and then unlocked the screen of her phone, seeming to read from a list. "He's stable, and he is hooked up to monitors to make sure he remains that way. There is no sign of a major blockage, and he has been put on thrombolytics and pain medication. He will be kept for observation, but should be discharged within two days unless unexpected symptoms arise," she said quickly, making eye contact with all three of the worried men throughout the course of her sentence. "You may come back and see him, if you wish," she added on with a kind smile, turning to walk back to the rubber doors. Why it was Anthea coming to tell them and  not a nurse, none of the men were sure, but John at least was fairly certain that none of them cared. 

 

Greg didn't hesitate in walking through the door to the room where Mycroft was held as Anthea opened it and John was going to follow suit, but was stopped by a hand gripping the back of his sleeve and a far too small and high-sounding "John?" coming from behind him. He stopped immediately and turned to see Sherlock looking more pale than he had been even at Baker Street. Anthea closed the door and John was only partially aware, more focused now on helping. "You can do this, Sherlock," he said, knowing that the simple motivation may have worked for a child, but would most likely end up frustrating the detective. It was evident that he was apprehensive about going in to see Mycroft, which John could only attribute to the fear of seeing his brother in such a weak and vulnerable state. "Listen to me," he said a bit more sternly, though his voice was still low and kind. "He's fine. He's stable, and that's not going to change. You'll be fine too, I swear. Just trust me on this, will you do that? Come on, I'm sure he wants to see you," he said, giving Sherlock as much of a reassuring smile as he could manage before he reached up to squeeze the side of his arm and opened the door, waiting for Sherlock to walk in before him.

 

Members of the Holmes family weren't exactly known for their sun-kissed skin or tanning abilities in general. Mycroft's freckled chest was exposed, dotted with electrodes to the ECG that had wires connecting up to a monitor where his heartbeat was being steadily projected. John kept his distance, knowing that this was more of a moment between the other three men in the room. He found Mycroft's attention and gave him a brief nod and a quiet "Glad to see you're alright," before he moved to the corner of the room to stay out of the way.

 

Mycroft looked paler than usual against the stark white linens on the hospital bed. Sherlock wasn't sure if he should chalk that up to the pain his brother was in or simply the dull colouring of the entire room, but it didn't matter either way. He wasn't going to sit by his brother's bedside and snivel, god no. This was just a visit to cement in his mind the fact that Mycroft was alive and that the fact of that wasn't going to change. He recalled all the times that he had been the one in the hospital bed with Mycroft standing at the end, his knuckles white on the handle of his umbrella and an expression on his face that, despite what it may have actually been (Sherlock knew he would never find out), he always read as disappointment. Upon remembering those hateful moments, Sherlock looked away from Mycroft and down to his own feet, catching the sight of his own white knuckles gripping the frame of the bed. He quickly took his hands off and forced his entire body to relax. After a steadying moment he looked back up, seeking out Mycroft's gaze and finding it, locking eyes with him. "I must say, I did always know it would be you who would have cardiac problems between us, but perhaps not this soon. Don't..." he paused. Was he really going to be so sentimental? If it was going to happen in front of anybody but Mycroft, Greg and John weren't bad company. "Don't let it happen again," Sherlock said, the threat of an overwhelmingly relieved smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.

 

Greg smiled down at his shoes for a moment in response to Sherlock's comment to Mycroft before turning around and looking at John in the corner, conveying what he knew they were both thinking about the brothers.  Pulling a chair from the corner of the room, Greg took up his spot next to the bed and settled in for a long two days. Time was worth a bit more now that he had experienced the fragility and fickleness of humans on a rather personal level, though, so he supposed in the grand scheme of things, he didn't mind a bit.

 

Mycroft needed a moment to recover from the sentiment spilling from Sherlock's mouth (it really hadn't been much of a comment, but the weight that it carried was incomparable to probably anything else Sherlock had said in the last two decades), though he would later blame the pause on pain medication coursing through his veins. With ever the stoic composure and untelling expression, he gave a slight smile to his brother, nodding just enough to convey that he understood. His smile grew to the point where the atmosphere in the room changed to something thicker, almost uncomfortable with the rarity of the smile. Finding Sherlock's eyes at the end of the bed, Mycroft said the only thing he could truly think of to reassure his brother that he would be fine.

 

"Mummy did always scold me for taking extra biscuits from the tin. What a coincidence...perhaps the universe is lazy after all."


End file.
